


pompeii

by nequas



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Heavy Angst, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nequas/pseuds/nequas
Summary: red are the noxian banners, and to stain the other their colors in such deadly fashion should feel right, should feel righteous, to divest him of the purity of his silver & blue, to feed into the wolf’s primal side, but this-— this is phyrric victory.





	pompeii

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grandstander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/gifts).



> this was a companion piece to adrian's [atlantis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14287452), because both of us are angst fiends and can't have these two be happy.

the wind howls as it passes them by, indifferent as to whether this is their last stand, ignorant to the finality of this meeting. the woods surrounding them is cold and uncaring as well, devoid of life as the animals residing have long fled at the sign of battle. the gust stings as it licks at a fresh cut upon his cheek and there’s a distinct gap between reality and realization, subtle but jarring all the same, as hand realizes of that the back-end of his axe’s head has found the precise momentum and place to strike at his foe’s midsection, to break the hard leather between blade and flesh. the blood it drains from the wound a startling, vivid red.

_red, red, red._

the harsh color alone, right then, seems to make mockery of the tragedy of it all; red are the noxian banners, and to stain the other their colors in such deadly fashion should feel right, should feel righteous, to divest him of the purity of his silver & blue, to feed into the wolf’s primal side, but this— _this is phyrric victory._

it drips onto the snow beneath their feet and for once, as it hits him, he’s glad they’re afforded brief privacy by the distance between them and their men. “...i _have no regrets_ ,” garen’s whisper cuts deeper than his blade, right then, and his jaw sets, squares, teeth gritting together as he pulls the blade out in one firm pull. by where it hit, regardless of whether he keeps it in place or not, the other will meet his end. garen staggers, the severity of the wound finally hitting him, and his impulse is to hold him up, but he knows better, he stops himself midway. it’s enough that he can regain his footing, one hand to the wound.  

_they have always known better._

“—you should have,” is what he manages back, and his gaze burns with what is left unsaid, what hangs in the air between them. damning himself further now, he takes one lonely hand to the demacian’s cheek, and it is cold, cold, cold, like all that surrounds them. he affords him a gentle swipe of his thumb, a gesture that if witnessed by either of theirs, would turn his name into dust. he doesn’t care, not now — what of his heart, is it not meeting that fate? _what of his heart, for once, what of it as it finally eclipses_ — “you should have, _look at us_. look at you. ”

he gives up on the pretense, the severity of what is happening too heavy for his mind to focus on duty. if anything, he’s paying respects to the enemy, if anything gives, this is the kinship formed on battlefields, the idea of honoring a warrior of worth not lost among most of his legion. this is the paragon of demacia, this is one of their greatest warriors— he has the right, then, to justify this as such, his honor never _quite_ lost despite the blood overflowing from his hands. there’s more to it, of course, their affair a heavy secret, but he spends no time wondering as one arm wrapping itself around the other, dragging him to a tree nearby. the other protests, voice strained, and he snarls back, more raw than vicious. "don’t you _dare_ deny me this, don’t you dare deny me farewell.”

pressing garen’s back against the tree bark, he pulls back, drawing a sharp breath as he kneels into the snow and sets down his axe. the blood continues to flow, copious, even through his lover’s fingers, and it’s a matter of time now, it’s only a matter of time. something is cracking inside him, slowly but surely. perhaps it is the last of his tenderness seeping away in tandem to the bleeding, and he can’t quite stop it. mighty and ruthless as he may be, there are things inevitable, deaths that you have to live through, even when it is partially your own. “…i meant it,” garen’s voice is soft, then, as he speaks once more. the urge to tell him to stop, to let silence fill this moment hits the noxian, but he doesn’t dare to steal this away from him. it’s  _ quid pro quo _ , and he disallows his own words in favor of his. one cold hand comes to his cheek and he reigns in the want to lean into it, to let his walls crumble any further. “i  _ meant _ it when i said i do not regret it, darius.”

“then you are a fool, but i have always known that,” and a broken bout of laughter escapes the hand as he traces the jawline of his lover with his knuckles, the touch too soft, almost disbelieving. his voice too falls into softness, into a sorrowful gentleness that feels misplaced. where is the wolf, where are the blazing fires, his mind question his heart—do they die and drown in the ocean of those eyes, do they go away when the sun that reflects upon it fades into nothing? he doesn’t dare to think too much of it, not right then. he’ll have the rest of his life to _burn_ over it. **“** i had just expected you to manage to fool me instead by the very end.” it’s garen’s own turn to laugh and it’s a low, fading thing, lost in the blinding white around them. the blood loss is taking its toll, he can tell, and this awareness will not soften the blow. he cups his face, he grows paler by the second yet there’s a hint of a smile upon his face, ah, the self-sacrificing fool. there’s no point in smiling when all they lay is their own rubble, but darius relents, the blood he bleeds dousing his fires.

“—one could say that i did, then, love. i apologize that it was not quite in the way you desired it to be.” 

darius scoffs, the sound too weak to his own ears, too feeble, and presses his forehead to his. they are alone still, the sound of battle far enough the hand cares none for possible implications. he means to say this is not the time, but words die in his throat, buried the graveyard his heart is shifting into, the worst tragedies the ones announced at their inception. he feels garen’s breath against his skin growing shallow. he pulls him closer, a hand in his hair, the gesture affectionate and desperate all at once. the following words come from him like afterthought, below his own breath. **“** _ my heart and you, they share a grave, _ **”** and there’s no comfort in the notion, only honesty, but his words are met with a final silence.

he keeps his eyes open when he finally pulls back to see the ocean blue faded gray, to let the truth sink in deeper. it has all come to fruition, all their predictions, and with gentle fingertips he closes his eyelids with strange reverence. his greatsword he retrieves to sink it into the ground near him, the gesture grim and solemn all at once. he’ll be heralded a hero for this victory over demacia, he’ll be made a villain by those that too loved the paragon. neither seem right, right then, when all it means is that half of him is slaughtered by his feet but to linger is meaningless when the deed is done.

he leaves, finally, but he cannot help but briefly wonder if  _ this _ is how it feels to be voided with the light to his shadows gone.


End file.
